


Picture Book Girl

by AlexisDanaan



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-02
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-04 01:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexisDanaan/pseuds/AlexisDanaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Out of all the things he thought she would do after the war had ended this had never entered his mind. Complete in 4 parts</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Die on the front page, just like the stars”_

1.

Out of all the things he thought she would do after the war had ended this had never entered his mind.

He stared at the images in front of him, eyes roving over a face that should have been familiar but was not.

Of course, he never expected her to forgive him. Perhaps she might have had he merely stood by, a passive observer to her pain. When he lifted his wand against her, though, anything between them died.

Not that it should have been there to begin with.

The war went on a lot longer than he had ever expected. Her graduation came and went, and instead of going to university she stayed by Potter’s side.

He trained them, all of them, as much as he could between his duties as a teacher, spy, and Death Eater. He helped Dumbledore sow the rumours that Potter was abroad, leading his ‘colleagues’ on wild chases that ate up months of their time and drove the Dark Lord to the brink of sanity.

Somewhere in there, between her graduation and the four years that it took before she found herself in a situation she couldn’t fight or smart her way out of, they’d become...something.

Friends? Lovers? Companions?

None of those seemed to fit.

Something. They were something.

But then he’d been forced to choose between her feelings and his cover and it had ended.

He was kind to her, all things considered, but he couldn’t imagine that looking up into his sneering face, his wand pointed directly between her eyes, was very good for a budding relationship.  He had hoped that she would understand, that she would forgive him.

She hadn’t. And he’d refused to make a fool of himself for a woman once more.

He’d refused to plead and beg. He would not demean himself by sitting outside her door, crying that he loved her.

He didn’t love her, anyway.

There was a part of him, the rather perverted part, that was happy she had chosen such a career.

At least this way he could see her, could admire her in a way he’d never been granted before. Theirs had been a relationship of rushed encounters, fumbles in dark hallways, and up against the wall. He’d never experienced the leisure of exploring her body with the lights on and all the time in the world.

His eyes focused on the glossy Muggle magazines spread out before him and tried to find a hint, _anything_ , of the young, brilliant, and courageously fragile woman he had once known.

He could not.

* * *

2.

“Tilt up, just a...perfect! There!”

Hermione held her pose, head tilted to the side, eyes on the camera. The shutter clicked away, taking several photos a second as the photographer moved around her. She followed him with her eyes until he gestured for her to look away. Focusing on the people moving around behind the camera equipment, she watched the unfamiliar faces lit by the glow of Muggle computer screens. She knew them to be various directors and editors, for both the magazine company as well as the modeling agency that represented her, but she couldn’t remember their names. She didn’t really care enough to bother remembering anyone’s names.

“Okay, let’s try a different pose. Lie down on the couch thing.”

She looked at the ottoman that the photographer was pointing at and bit back the retort on the tip of her tongue. Instead, she walked over to it and sat down as people swarmed her. They helped her lie back in the giant, awkward gown she wore, a completely non-functional piece, and fixed her already perfect make-up.

The photographer made his way over to her, repositioning her arms and legs like a doll, tilting her head just a smidge this way and that, before declaring her perfect.

Looking up at the ceiling of the studio she wondered, not for the first time, why she thought this was a good idea, why she thought it would make her happy.

Perhaps it had been fate; it had certainly felt like it at the time. She had fled England shortly after the war ended, needing space from magical Britain specifically. America had seemed like the perfect opportunity to disappear. Running into an old primary school friend—well, friend was a rather generous term—had been a stroke of luck for her. The odds were astronomical.

She had been looking to go to University, to start over with the things that she truly loved, but that required money. Jessica had held all the answers to her problems. A stop in a cafe for a cup of coffee, a bit of a chat, and an hour later Hermione was left holding the card of a modeling agency. She figured it was a sham, but she hadn’t anything to lose and her funds were dwindling fast. The sale of her parents’ house did not spread far and she needed tuition money.

So she had put a light glamour on her scars, done herself up as best as she could, and taken a cab to the studio.

No one was more surprised than her when they signed her on.

It had been truly perfect. She earned enough money to keep herself afloat and was able to study at Salem Academy. It had always been on her radar, a dream to make reality after the war, after she could safely leave Harry’s side, and the completion of that goal had been sweet.

“Turn to me!”

She turned, repositioning her head carefully so as not to muss up her hair.

That had been the first thing to go. It was too much like her old self, the one she no longer knew. She’d stood in front of her bathroom mirror one evening, her hand pulling it away from her neck, and severed it all with one clean hex.

Next, she taught herself charms to apply make-up and style her short hair.

Then was a change of wardrobe. Her casual and comfortable clothes no longer suited. She was a model after all; she had to look the part, didn’t she?

No one around her knew it, but the physical changes were merely a reflection of the inner ones. She was quieter, far more reserved than she had ever been before. Jessica assumed that it was due to age, that the bossy little swot she’d known as a child had simply become an adult. She didn’t offer her opinion unless it was asked for, she didn’t answer every question, she didn’t flaunt her knowledge.

The only thing that stayed the same was her dedication to her studies. She’d devoured her school work, she’d thrived on the challenges her Masters set before her, and she’d graduated with honours, top of her class.

And then she’d found herself adrift, without anchor, purpose, or direction.

“Give us a bit of a smile, Hermione! Let’s put some life in this!”

Her lips curled upwards reflexively and she laughed, a fake, practiced laugh designed to be captured by a camera and splashed across a page.


	2. Chapter 2

3.

“Severus! Severus Snape, get your scrawny arse over here and help me!”

Standing up, Severus took his time leaving the back room he’d turned into an office some time ago. Entering his shop proper, he found Pomona Sprout glaring at him, her arms full of potted plants, bags hanging off her forearms no doubt filled with other ingredients she grew for him.

“Pomona, dear, I didn’t hear you.”

“Liar,” she growled at him, dumping her load of pots in his arms the moment he got close enough. With a sigh, she brushed back her fly away grey hair, leaving a smudge of dirt across her sweaty forehead. He smiled.

“Why didn’t you just use magic? You _are_ a witch, are you not?” he asked, unloading the living plants carefully on to the long desk that held his register. Beneath the heavy, scarred wood was a glass case displaying various implements to make and store potions with, all of them particularly pretty but not all that useful.

He wasn’t above making a bit more off of idiots who fancied themselves a Potions Master but hadn’t a clue.

“I couldn’t, and you know it, you terrible man!” she shook her finger at him with one hand, handing him the burlap sack that had been dangling off her arm with the other. “I’ll not have you harping on and on about the specimens being tainted with magic.”

“I do enjoy getting a rise out of you, Pomona,” he confessed, smirking at her.

Her smile was rueful and a tad irritated. “I know you do. You’re a troublesome boy.”

“I thought I was a terrible man?”

“Yes, well, play childish games and I’ll treat you like a child.” She sniffed delicately, an action so opposite to her appearance that Severus nearly snorted. “Besides, I know I don’t look it, but I’m quite a bit older than you.”

“You don’t look a day over twenty.”

She glared at him. “Now you’re being cheeky.”

“I’ll make it up to you with a cup of tea,” he told her, turning back to the potted plants. “Just let me move these out of the way. You did a wonderful job with them, they look near perfect.”

“They _are_ perfect,” she corrected from behind him. “I grew them myself.”

“These aren’t from Longbottom’s Greenhouses?” he asked mildly, knowing full well they weren’t.

She swatted him gently on the arm as he pulled out his wand to transfigure a piece of parchment into a long, wide plank of wood. Carefully he lined the pots up on the wood before flicking his wand at it and making the whole thing rise steadily into the air.

“What—but—” Pomona spluttered at his side and he turned to smirk at her.

“I cast the spell on the wood, not the pots. It won’t leech into roots in the time it takes to move them,” he told her.

She huffed and cast him a glare before turning away and marching around his register. “I’m going to make tea and I just might spit in yours.”

Severus chuckled to himself as she disappeared into his office. It was too easy, goading her; much easier than Minerva.  Gently he guided the plank of wood through his shop and to the other side where his lab could be found. The shop was small but it was his pride and...if not exactly joy, it was certainly a source of contentment. He had opened up shop after the furor had died down and he’d been awarded his Order of Merlin, First Class. Between the monies from the award and his generous savings, Hogwarts had provided for all of his needs after all, he had had plenty available to begin his enterprise as an independent Potioneer.

With only a handful of working Masters in Europe, his skills were highly sought out by both businesses and medical facilities, St. Mungo’s being his biggest client. He made good money and was comfortable that way. Pomona, his main supplier for ingredients that could be grown in a greenhouse, made a pretty Knut herself and it helped her through her retirement and her boredom.

“Severus, where on earth is your sugar?” she called, her voice cutting clear across the shop.

He directed the plank of plants to one of his workbenches and left the room, warding it against nosey customers.

“It’s on the tray you blind bat!” he replied, walking back towards the office. When he entered the room again it was to find Pomona standing by his desk, the tea service in front of her, and a glossy Muggle magazine in her hand. He nearly groaned aloud.

She looked up at him as he took a step forward, her expression completely gobsmacked. “Is this what Miss Granger does now?”

“As far as I can tell? Yes.”

Pomona looked back down at the magazine, blinking several times as if trying to clear away the vision before her. It was a new one, and he had only found it earlier that morning. He had a habit of walking past Muggle news shops, the ones that held their wares in wracks either out front or close to the entrance, and he always bought the ones she featured in. She was on the cover again, draped elegantly over a leather ottoman, her head thrown back in laughter.

“She’s gorgeous,” Pomona murmured.

Severus said nothing, reaching around her to find the sugar and plonking it down loudly on the wooden desk. As intended, it made her look up at him.

“What are you doing with this anyway, Severus?” she asked, gesturing with the magazine.

“I spotted it while walking through Muggle London and bought a copy,” he told her flatly. “What are you doing snooping through my things? Isn’t that more Minerva’s style?”

“I wasn’t snooping, I was making room. You’re a dreadful slob sometimes, Severus.”

“Only where it doesn’t matter,” he said, sitting himself down at his desk and gesturing for her to take the chair closest to him at the side of it. He shoved the magazine away, covering it with order forms and inventory lists, pretending that it hardly mattered. “Now I know you’re dying to tell me all of the latest gossip so you might as well get to it or we’ll be here all day.”

Pomona smiled at him and took a sip of her tea. “And what? You’ve a hot date to be getting to?”

He glowered at her but said nothing. She tutted and shook her head. “You need to get out more Severus. You’re only forty-eight for Merlin’s sake, man!”

“How is Longbottom?” he asked her pointedly, ignoring her comments completely.

Pursing her lips unhappily, she took the hint. “He is doing wonderfully at Hogwarts, he’s really caught his stride as a teacher and word has it that he’s courting Miss Hannah Abbot, the one who bought out the Leaky when Tom passed? I must say, I’m terribly glad he gave up that whole Auror business. I know he was instrumental in the Final Battle but he hasn’t the heart for it, the dear...”

* * *

4.

Hermione was slightly startled when she ambled downstairs into her kitchen and found a barn owl sitting on her granite countertops.

“How the hell did you get in?” she demanded of it. A gentle, almost apologetic hoot, was his reply.

She recognised it as Harry’s owl, of course, but that didn’t stop her from being mystified. It was the only one that could always find his way in somehow. She wasn’t convinced that he was wholly an owl and not...something else.

With a yawn, she took the Muggle style envelope from his clawed foot and smiled at the front. Harry, ever attentive to the details these days, always made sure that if Sam (the owl) had to leave her mail it wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

_Hermione Granger_

_1283 Indigo Cres_

_Tonawanda, NY_

_14198_

_United States of America_

 

She put the letter down and picked up her kettle, intent on having her tea before reading any mail. She looked at the owl sitting there, waiting next to her kitchen sink.

“You’re waiting for a response, aren’t you?”

The owl bobbed, almost as if executing a quick bow, and her suspicions about him being more than an owl increased. She sighed. “I suppose it is a long trip from London to New York. Why don’t you go find Amelia’s perch and take a rest, I’ll find you when I’m done.”

He took off, his claws scrabbling a bit on the smooth countertops, and Hermione put her kettle on the burner. She lived in a mostly Muggle home, with a few exceptions, because it reminded her of her childhood, and it was just easier that way. She had picked just outside of Buffalo to live in because it was far, far cheaper than living in New York City and with her ability to Apparate the distance it just didn’t make sense to prostitute herself for a lovely flat in the Big Apple. Besides, despite what outsiders might say about Buffalo and its environs, she found that she enjoyed living there. She lived in a charming neighbourhood filled with families and a good sense of community. The only time she’d had any problems was when someone siphoned the gas out of her car while it sat in the driveway. She’d put charms on the gas cap after that.

Her kettle whistled and Hermione filled a pot with hot water and a few teabags. From the fridge she scrounged a little box of blackberries and a tub of yoghurt. With her wand, she bid it all, plus the necessary utensils and dishware, to follow her to her dining room.

Finally, when she had a bowl of food and a pot of steeping tea, she turned the letter over and cracked the plain wax seal on it.

_Hermione,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. We have exciting news! Ginny delivered early! Our daughter was born June 28 th 2007*. I’ve included a picture of her for you, taken the day after she was born. Ginny eventually took the camera away from me, said I was going to give them both a complex with all the picture taking. I can’t help it though, Hermione. She’s perfect. _

Hermione upended the envelope and, sure enough, a wizarding photo fell out. She picked it up and felt tears gather in her eyes. It had been taken over Ginny’s shoulder, looking down at the little bundle in her mother’s arms. Hermione smiled, her heart melting a little, when the little pink faced infant yawned and turned her face towards her mother’s chest. Her heart contracted painfully and she forced herself back to the letter.

_We want to name her Lily Hermione Potter after her (we hope?) Godmother. Say yes, Hermione. Please? I would love nothing more than for my daughter to have your name as well as my mother’s. You are two of the strongest, most loving women I know. I hope I’ve sufficiently pulled at your heartstrings to get you to agree and to convince you to come for her Naming Day at the end of July._

_I know that you’re busy and you rarely get time away, but I’m hoping that nearly a month is enough advance warning to have you here for our special day. Perhaps I can convince you to stay for my birthday as well? Two birds, one stone? It’s been months since we’ve seen you, and James misses you (I’m clearly not above guilt tripping you, am I?), as do Ginny and I._

_Let me know as soon as you can._

_All my love,_

_Harry._

Hermione smiled, shaking her head as she re-read her friend’s letter. It was true, he wasn’t above using guilt as a method of coercion, but he wasn’t particularly good at it. James was only two years old, and he only saw her about once every four to six months. If he missed her, it was because she brought him toys and goodies from America. She summoned a piece of parchment and a quill as she poured herself a cup of tea from the pot.

_Harry,_

_CONGRATULATIONS!!!_

_You’re right, she is perfect. I cannot stop watching the photo. I’m more honoured than I can tell you, Harry, I really am but I have to wonder at your sanity, saddling the poor girl with such an unusual name, but at least it’s not her given name. Small mercies._

_You needn’t go to such extremes as guilting me into coming for her Name Day you prat. Of course I’ll be there! If I have to cancel things, then I shall cancel things. It’s not every day I get a Goddaughter, now is it? When shall I expect to invade your humble abode? Give me some dates so I can move things around as need be._

_Also, you need to work on your ‘guilt tripping’ skills. Perhaps you ought to ask Malfoy for some pointers, I remember him being quite good at it. Or is he no longer dating Luna? Either way, seek assistance in that area because you failed. Terribly. We both know that James barely remembers me, if at all._

_Send Ginny my love and owl me the dates as soon as you can!_

_All my love, always,_

_Hermione_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * I changed the order in which the Potter children were born, making Lily the middle child. Also, I made up the date to fit with my story. Sue me.


	3. Chapter 3

5.

When he saw her the first time he wasn’t completely sure that his mind wasn’t playing him for a fool. She looked so very different in person compared to the photos in the magazines that he hid in a box at the back of his wardrobe like some dirty secret. Not that they were—dirty, that is. Just a secret. He didn’t often have guests, so he didn’t really need to hide them, but he dreaded the idea of someone finding out that he was...what? Mooning over a girl half his age? Obsessing? _Stalking_?

But no, he hadn’t been imagining things. The woman he had seen stepping out of Flourish & Blotts, looking elegant and beautiful in a set of mulberry robes, was the same woman before him now.

He stood at one end of the Potter’s sitting room, his back against the wall out of a long ingrained habit, and a drink in his hand as he observed the overly full room.

Everyone Potter had ever known was there and, even with the wall they’d knocked down when redecorating, the former Headquarters was still packed. People mingled and chatted with each other in small clumps, the occasional person breaking off to talk to someone else, or to hail down a familiar face. Very few spoke to him, which he was okay with, because even years of peace could not morph him into a social butterfly.

He nearly snorted at the thought.

Instead of feigning interest in the lives of others he nursed his whiskey and tried not to watch her.

It was difficult when she wore robes like those. The rich wine colour suited her admirably, making her tanned skin glow, and her sun lightened hair stand out. The fit was impeccable and they looked as if they had been tailored specifically for her which, in retrospect, they probably had. The material clung to her body in all of the right places without being obscene.

He shifted his body weight and forced his gaze away.

His eyes lighted on his godson, Draco, and his date Miss Lovegood. That had been a match that he had never seen coming but, once it was there, couldn’t deny its probability of succeeding. Miss Lovegood lightened Draco’s heavy soul and gave him a reason to smile. For that, Severus was grateful.

Invariably, he found himself looking at Hermione once more. She had barely glanced at him since he walked in, Pomona and Minerva pressing their hands against his back as if they feared he’d suddenly change his mind about attending. It was the first time he’d been in the same room as her since she left the country. He understood that she visited the Potters every once in a while, but he was not privy to such gatherings and she’d never sought him out.

She was so very, very different.

Holding herself stiffly, as if she were constantly on display or under scrutiny, she looked uncomfortable with her present company. Her appearance, everything from her clothes, to her purse, to her little heels, was stylish and expensive looking. She had more make-up on than he’d ever seen her wear; a swipe of something on her eyes and a little gloss on her lips had been her _modus operandi_ for so many years. Now her hair was short and straight, almost boyish and yet...not. Her brown eyes were smoky and dark, looking seductive and dangerous at the same time. It made him uncomfortable.

He felt like an idiot for thinking it, but he missed _Miss Granger_ , the young woman with the barely tameable hair, the ill fitting jumpers, and the constant smudge of ink on her chin and fingers.

 It was thanks to his constant scrutiny that he noticed when she slipped away. His eyes followed her and from his vantage point he could see her feet climbing the stairs in the hall beyond the sitting room. Calmly, he set his drink down and followed, walking the edges and avoiding cutting a clear path through the people standing about and socialising.

When he reached the landing of the second floor he was unsurprised to see light spilling from beneath the doors to the Black library. He smiled to himself in the windowless hallway, glad to see that some things never did change. Moving on quiet feet, he reached the doorway and pushed it gently open.

His eyes found her standing by the bookcase along the far wall, a few steps from a grouping of couches and the fireplace. He watched as her fingers danced along leather bound spines, moving from one tome to the next, and he could imagine the sight of her eyes following avidly from title to title. She stopped randomly, something catching her eye, and she plucked a blue bound book from the shelf. She opened it there, laying it flat in one hand while the other skimmed down a page. Without looking up, she wandered back to one of the couches and sat down with her back to him.

 “You finally look like yourself,” he said quietly. Her head snapped up, though she did not turn around. “At least a little bit,” he amended.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said stiffly.

“You don’t look like the Hermione that I knew.”

She stood up then and he heard the soft thump of the book she’d picked landing on the cushion beside her. Turning around, she finally faced him.

He felt her stare deep in his gut and realised suddenly that he was incredibly nervous. Her expression was pinched and tense, though not as angry as he had thought it would be. He watched her watch him, neither of them saying anything, until she finally crossed her arms over her chest defensively and looked away.

“The key word there is ‘knew’,” she said softly, her voice barely reaching him.

“Yes,” he agreed, just as quiet. “You have changed completely; I cannot say that I know you any longer.”

“Everyone changes, Severus,” she says, the defiance in her posture leaking into her tone.

“True,” he nodded. “But do they change so completely that they are nigh unrecognisable?”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded, finally looking at him once more.

“You are a heralded war hero, your picture has been plastered through _The Daily Prophet_ and more since you were, what? Fourteen? And yet this morning you waltzed through Diagon Alley without anyone batting an eyelash at you.”

Her eyes widened and her arms dropped to her sides. “Are you _stalking_ me?” she asked, incredulous.

He snorted. “I am many things, Hermione, but that is not one of them. I own a shop in Diagon Alley, I saw you leaving Flourish & Blotts.”

“You say that no one recognised me in one breath and admit to doing just that in the next.” Her limp hands found their way to her hips and her eyebrow rose. Even her body language had changed, he mused silently.

He strode forward, crossing the small library in a few long legged steps. To her credit, she did not so much as move an inch when he stopped at the couch she had occupied. He leaned over the back of it, his hands pressed into the cushions so that she could not look anywhere but at his face.

“You can change everything about yourself, Hermione,” he told her fiercely, “and I would still know you.” His eyes flicked over her, from top to bottom. “I would know you anywhere. The question is can you say the same?”

She frowned even as she tilted her chin up defiantly, determined to maintain eye contact with him. “What on earth are you talking about?”

He nearly smiled at that moment. He’d been wrong about one thing, at least. She may have morphed into another woman physically but it seemed that she had not lost her backbone, or her inherent need to challenge him. He leaned back, giving them both space because, in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to vault over the back of the couch that separated them and take her in his arms.

“Do you recognise yourself, Hermione?” he asked quietly. “When you look in the mirror, can you still see who you are?”

She opened her mouth...and then closed it. Her arms went back over her chest, crossed tightly under her breasts. He waited one heartbeat, two, three, before he turned back towards the door.

“I’ll leave you to your reading.”

* * *

 

6.

_She felt two spells hit her at almost the exact same time. The stinging hex hit her in the back of the knee a second before the Stunner connected with her shoulder. She went down like a sack of bricks._

_“I got her! I got her! She’s mine!”_

_“I hit’er first!”_

_The scent of unwashed body surrounded her as a pair of arms hauled her up from the forest floor, leaves and debris clinging to her open jacket and the sweater underneath. Big hands surrounded her forearms and her shoulders ached as her limbs were pulled back against their sockets, her chest forcibly thrust forward. In front of her stood two grimy looking wizards, one with his wand out and the other looking decidedly uninterested._

_“She’s mine, Scabior!” the lankier wizard, the one with his wand out, argued hotly. He was missing most of his front teeth. “I hit her with a Stunner.”_

_“Ah,” said a voice behind her, “but it was my hex what caught’er first.”_

_“But I stunned her!” the other protested, his voice almost shrill._

_“Shut yer gob,” her captor spat. “She’s my prize. I’ll take’er to Malfoy Manor, see what our pal Fenrir caught.” He pulled sharply on her shoulders while he leaned slightly around her, enough to see a bit of her face. “Would you like that, luv? Get to see your friends, you would.”_

_She didn’t bother fighting him. She knew when she was good and had. If she were lucky, they would underestimate her and give her an opening to get her wand back. Desperately, she fought back the feeling of panic that threatened to crawl its way up from her belly and swallow her whole._

_“What? Nothing to say?” Scabior grinned in her face, his teeth various shades of yellow and brown. Her lip curled unconsciously and she turned her face away. “Aww.” He made a tutting sound. “I don’t think kitten likes me. Oh, well.”_

_Before she could prepare, before she could take a fortifying breath of air, she felt her body wrenched into Side-Along Apparition. Constricted on all sides, all she could be sure of was Scabior’s body pressed tightly against hers, which was not reassuring at all._

_They landed hard. He was either unused to bringing people with him, or he was simply inept at it. He didn’t bother to hold on to her as her knees gave out and she landed on all fours at his feet. He let out a laugh, a high pitched, nasally sound._

_“What have you brought?” a voice demanded. She looked up and found herself staring at a woman she’d only seen in passing years ago._

_“Potter’s Mudblood,” Scabior answered proudly._

_Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes darted down to her quickly before she turned sharply on her heel. “Bring her,” she called over her shoulder._

_He was not gentle about it. Grabbing a fist full of her hair, he proceeded to drag her down the hall as she tried to gain her footing and keep up at the same time. She barely saw any of the rooms they passed, such was the pain in her head, until she was released to fall once more onto all fours._

_“Draco! Draco, come!” a new voice demanded. Hermione looked up into the demented gaze of Bellatrix Lestrange leaning over her, black hair almost completely obscuring her face. “Is it Potter’s Mudblood? Is it? Look, boy! Is it?” she gestured wildly with her hands._

_Hermione heard movement and looked up to see Draco dragging his feet. He glanced at her reluctantly, and she was struck by how terrified he looked._

_“I...I...” he stammered, swallowing heavily. He didn’t seem to be able to look at her for long._

_“Speak up, boy!” Bellatrix screeched suddenly. She reached out with both hands and dragged Draco closer. With one hand on his face she forced him level with Hermione and she could see sharp nails digging into his skin._

_“I’m...I’m not sure.”_

_With a noise of disgust, Bellatrix threw him away from her. He stumbled but caught himself before he could fall. “Get Snape!” she yelled. “Someone get Snape!”_

_Hermione felt her heart give a great, uncomfortable lurch. She had not thought that he would be at Malfoy Manor, not with school in session at Hogwarts, but no, there he was, walking calmly into the room. His eyes lit on her instantly and he paused._

_“You seem to have another guest, Narcissa. At this rate, the Manor will be full to the attic,” he commented dryly, his eyes still on her._

_“Snape!” Bellatrix barked. “Is this Potter’s Mudblood?”_

_In a split second decision, she took the option of answering away from him. She straightened as much as she could from her position on the floor and tilted her chin defiantly at him._

_“Hello, Professor. Fancy meeting you here.”_

_Bellatrix swung about, surprise written on her sunken features momentarily before maniacal glee overtook her. “Oh, Mudblood. You’re not very smart, are you?” she cooed._

_Hermione shrugged, feigning indifference. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Severus walk further into the room, taking a spot near Draco. “What’s the point in pretending? He’ll tell you who I am. He’s not like stupid over here,” she jerked her head at Draco, “who can’t see through a few glamour charms.”_

_There were no glamour charms on her person, she hadn’t had the time to cast them as they fled, realising they had walked into a clever little trap. Severus knew it, and she daresay that Draco knew it as well, but Bellatrix and Narcissa had only seen her in passing and that had been years prior._

_Bellatrix gestured with her hand as if she were batting away a fly. “I don’t care, Mudblood. Where’s Potter?”_

_A sharp bark of laughter escaped Hermione before she could stamp it down. “Do you actually expect me to answer that?” she asked incredulously. “And you call_ me _stupid?”_

_The dark haired witch snapped her wand out of her sleeve with practised ease. She had barely uttered the word ‘_ Crucio’ _when Hermione’s body exploded with pain and she began to scream. She fell backwards, hitting her head hard on the wooden floor, and felt as if she had been lit on fire from the inside. The pain eased just long enough for her to suck in a great, shuddering breath, before it descended upon her again._

_“Call me stupid, will you?” Bellatrix’s voice sounded as if it had come from a great distance._

_“...won’t get...kill her...”_

_The curse was lifted at the same moment that Hermione heard Bellatrix’s voice spit out, “Fine. You do it then.”_

_Drawing in rapid, ragged breaths, Hermione forced herself to roll over. Everything in her body screamed in protest, but she wanted to be able to see her tormentor, wanted to be able to look them in the eye. When she looked up, however, it wasn’t into the face that she expected._

_She met his gaze boldly even as bile rose in the back of her throat. He looked down at her, his face dispassionate and calm. To everyone else in the room Severus Snape did not give a shit that he was about to torture one of his former students. No one else in the room could see his eyes._

_There was no need to be a mind reader. She could see the pleading in his dark irises, the need for forgiveness. For permission, even._

_Blinking, she felt hot tears leak out of the corners of her eyes and soak into her hair but she didn’t say a word as he lifted his wand and aimed it directly at her face. Instinctively, her hand covered her abdomen._

“Crucio”

Hermione woke with a gasp, her entire body twitching. Heart racing, her eyes wildly took in the unfamiliar surroundings. It took her several seconds to realise where she was. Slowly, she sat up and pushed back the sweat dampened sheets that she had gotten tangled in. With a shaky hand, she rubbed at her face and pushed her fingers through her hair.

“Fucking hell,” she muttered. Slipping her hand under her pillow, she retrieved her wand and lit it silently. Shuffling around the room a bit, she found her dressing gown and shrugged into it before letting herself quietly out of the room and into the hall. She stole quietly through the house, her wand the only light to guide her, until she found herself in the kitchen.

Being in the basement and far away from the family rooms, she felt safe lighting the lamps and filling the brass kettle with water for a cup of much needed tea. She put the ancient contraption on the hob before settling herself at the long, scrubbed wooden table that dominated the room.

As if in her dream once more, her hand fell to her abdomen and her flat belly. Seeing Severus had brought back her worst memories of the war. In the grand scheme of things, she had been through worse both before and after that event, but nothing else had left such emotional scars. The arrival of Harry and Ron, gagged and trussed up like a couple of turkeys, had ended his little torture session not long after it had begun. He had only been forced to use the Cruciatus and a handy little cutting charm on her before Fenrir had burst into the room, screaming that he had to see the Dark Lord. Hermione had never been so happy to see that Ron’s shoddy charm work had failed because, even though he’d botched a glamour and instead made Harry’s face swell, he had clearly taken her advice and tried to disguise them when they were caught.

The kettle began to whistle and she quickly hopped up to grab it before it woke the whole house. Methodically, she made herself a cup of tea, her mind far away.

She’d always known that it could come down to Severus having to choose between her and his cover, and she _knew_ that he had chosen correctly. Anything else and their spy would have been lost; without him they would not have had the upper hand in the Final Battle, not to mention the countess little tidbits he picked up and passed on, or the false trails he laid for Death Eaters to follow. Anything else and he would have died.

It wasn’t until she woke in Shell Cottage, until after she’d heard about Harry and Ron’s daring rescue, that she realised something was wrong. Fleur hovered by her bedside, casting worried eyes upon her in a way that Hermione had never seen from the aloof French woman. When the blonde had finally shooed Harry and Ron out of the room and sat down on the edge of Hermione’s bed, taking her hand gently, she knew that something was terribly wrong.

It had only been two missed periods. She hadn’t been sure. It could have been stress and poor diet, two things she’d had in abundance, but as she had listened to Fleur’s quiet, heavily accented words wash over her she had realised that she’d always known. The knowledge had been buried deep inside her, sitting just under her navel, growing steadily with each day, but she had been afraid to acknowledge it.

Fleur cried. Hermione did not. She listened to the other witch tell her that diagnostics spells had revealed the pregnancy, and the fact that her barely-there-child had not survived the experience. She remembered rolling over and facing the wall, looking for anything other than Fleur’s soft, pitying eyes.

He hadn’t known, not that he could have done anything with the knowledge. It would have simply made keeping his cover that much harder for him. Her rational mind told her that she ought to have been glad she’d never had the chance to tell him, that she hadn’t been prepared for a baby at the time, that it wasn’t his fault, that it might not have even been _his_ curse that did it. She often wished that her rational mind was the one controlling her heart.

She had spent years blaming him, even though she knew she had no right to. It had taken her a long time to remember herself, but by the time she had years had passed. She convinced herself that it was simply easier to stay in America, and squashed the part of her that wanted to return to England, to fall upon her knees and beg him to take her back, because she knew it was pointless. Severus Snape was, indeed, many things, but forgiving was not one of them, especially when he had been tossed aside like yesterday’s rubbish.

Hermione stared at her tea, uninterested in drinking it, her thoughts swirling in her mind until the soft shuffle of feet disturbed her and she looked up. Yawning, his mouth full of crooked, yellowing teeth, Kreacher entered the kitchen. When he spotted her, his head cocked to the side and his eyes settled on her mug.

“Is Missy wanting new tea?” he asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “What time is it Kreacher?”

“Just past half-five, Missy.”

Hermione nodded silently and drank the rest of her tea, cold though it was. When she was finished, Kreacher whisked it away before she could even begin to protest. She thanked him quietly and let herself out of the kitchen. The house just as still and quiet as it had been when she’d left her room, but somehow the early morning light creeping in through the windows filled it with a sense of expectancy, as if the house knew it would soon be bustling with people and activity.

Reaching her door, Hermione hesitated on the threshold, a wild thought dancing through her mind.

She would only be in England for a few more days, just long enough to celebrate Harry’s birthday with him. When would she return after that? Probably not until he had another child.

Perhaps now was the time to fall to her knees and beg.

And George _had_ mentioned something about Snape living above his shop as the twins had once done.

How hard could a shop owned by Severus Snape in Diagon Alley be to find?


	4. Chapter 4

7.

He was in the middle of making tea and preparing breakfast when he felt the first twinge on his wards. It was so gentle, like a curious prod, that he almost dismissed it. He paused, hand going to the wand sticking out of his dressing gown, waiting to see if the pulse in magical energy would come again.

It did.

His suspicions were confirmed when the prod came in stronger, more like a deliberate jab. Someone was trying to breach his wards. He smirked as he quickly belted his house robe and palmed his wand. He was going to make them regret the day they were born.

Quickly, he slipped downstairs and into the shop proper. Using the near darkness of the early morning he slid behind one of the many shelves in his shop and peered at the large glass panel in the middle of the front door. What he saw almost made him drop his wand.

Hermione Granger stood out front his store, wand in hand, and a look of fierce determination on her face.

Without another thought, he strode to the door and yanked it open.

“Merlin’s pants, woman, what are you _doing_?”

Her wand arm, which had been raised to cast yet another spell at his wards, dropped at the sight of him. “Trying to get your attention,” she told him.

“Well, you’ve got it. Now answer my question!” he snapped.

He was not a morning person.

“I need to speak to you.”

That much was patently obvious but as he eyed her up and down he realised something was wrong. It was as if someone had gone and switched the woman from the day before with her complete opposite. Hermione still wore expensive robes, but they were the same ones from the day before and they looked as if they had been rolled into a ball sometime between taking them off and putting them back on. She wore no make-up, her hair was a mess, and she had the distinct look of someone barely fighting off the urge to flee. He stepped back and motioned her into the shop.

“This way,” he said, closing the door behind her. He led the way through to the back of the store and to the staircase that was cleverly hidden into the wall. He listened to her light footsteps follow him up and into his personal living space. His eyes swept around the room quickly, looking for anything that might embarrass him, but he was a fastidious man most of the time and his quarters were kept clean.

“I was making tea. Would you like some?”

“Uhm, sure.”

His flat was mostly open concept: the living room bled right into the kitchen with no walls. It was only the bedroom and bathroom that were kept behind closed doors. He walked straight across the space and into the kitchen. It featured a nice, large window that unfortunately looked over the roof of the store next to his but it let in plenty of natural light which he liked. Reaching for the pot and a mug, he poured her a cup. “Milk and two sugars?”

“No, just the milk please,” she said from behind him.

“Is there anything about you that hasn’t changed?” he asked, stirring the milk in and turning around with it. His tone was a bit more accusatory than he had intended but Hermione didn’t look like she’d noticed. She accepted her tea and shrugged delicately.

“Have you eaten?”

She shook her head silently, holding her mug in two hands as if she were trying to steal its warmth. He turned back towards the counter, glad to have something to do with his hands. Without a word, he picked up where he had left off with the making of his breakfast but doubling the ingredients.

She was silent while he moved about the kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl and beating them with a fork. He felt her eyes on him and it made his skin crawl with awareness. His mind jumped through all the possible reasons she could be there, but nothing seemed to really fit. Questions flew to the tip of his tongue, things he’d wanted to know for years, but he filed them away until he could think of one that hopefully wouldn’t send her scampering for the exit immediately.

“Why did you get your Mastery of Potions but not use it?” He turned around when there was no answer forthcoming and found her standing in the middle of his kitchen, exactly where she had been when he’d passed her the cup of tea, staring at him. “Well?”

“How do you know about that?” she asked quietly.

“They publish the list of new Masters or Mistresses in Potions Quarterly. It’s not a terribly long list, and your name tends to stand out,” he said, watching her carefully.

She gave him a pathetic half-smile and a nod of her head. “Yes, I suppose so.”

When she didn’t continue he felt his ire beginning to rise. Hadn’t she said she wanted to talk to him? So why was he the one doing all the talking?

“I was proud of you,” he told her abruptly, turning back around. Grabbing a wooden spoon, he poured the beaten eggs into a pan and began to scramble them.

“Was?”

“I’ve kept up with your...career. I suppose you can call it that. I thought you’d do more with your life.”

“What do you mean?”

He turned around to find her frowning at him. With a few quick strides, he walked into the sitting room and picked up the magazine that Pomona had found in his office. Without a word he walked back and handed it to her.

“You have Vogue in your house, Severus?” she looked up at him, a small, genuine smile on her face. She was teasing him, but he couldn’t find it in him to reciprocate. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

“I never thought I’d see the day that Hermione Granger wasted herself on looking _pretty_ ,” he said flatly.

The smile dropped from her face like a stone in water.  “You know _nothing_ about me,” she spat, her demeanor changing suddenly. He blinked at the change but did not step back. “Yes, I’ve changed, Severus. I changed everything about myself because I couldn’t _stand_ who I was anymore. Who the fuck are _you_ to judge me?”

She shoved the cup of tea into his chest, sloshing the hot liquid all over both of their hands and his clothes, and threw the magazine on the floor.

“Hermione—”

“This was a mistake,” she said, more to herself than to him. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Wrenching his door open, she practically threw herself through it, slamming it hard behind her.

* * *

8.

Apparating to the top step of Grimmauld Place, Hermione’s anger carried her through the front door and up into her temporary bedroom. She passed no one on her way up, most of them probably being in the basement kitchen, and for that she was grateful. Whipping her wand out, she cast a Silencing spell at all four walls, ceiling and floor before squeezing her eyes shut and letting out a scream of anger. After a second of indecision, she marched over to the bed, grabbed a pillow and shoved her face in it only to scream once more. When she had worn herself out, and her throat felt a little raw, she dropped the pillow and collapsed onto the bed.

“That was not one of your best thought out plans, Hermione,” she murmured to herself, looking up at the ceiling.

What had she been thinking? Or better yet, why _hadn’t_ she been thinking?

With a huff, she forced herself up and entered the bathroom for a much needed shower. She looked at herself in the mirror and grimaced. She was a hot mess, as the Americans would say. Going over there looking like she’d just rolled out of bed and thrown on the first thing she saw—the fact that that was exactly what she had done was neither here nor there—had been another mistake. If there was one thing her profession had taught her it was that looking good was a power that both men and women could and should wield. Was it shallow? Perhaps a bit, but knowing that she looked good gave her confidence.

“I could use with a dose of that,” she told her reflection morosely.  

Once in the shower, she scrubbed herself furiously, being rougher than necessary. In her mind she verbally eviscerated Severus Snape; she sat him down and told him right off, making him feel ashamed for being such a prick. It was a sweet image, if unrealistic.

Her anger was beginning to fade when she got out of the shower, wrapping a thick towel around her body and dripping on the floor. “Fuck,” she muttered, realising that she had left her wand on the bed and she’d have to drip all the way over to it. “Oh, well.”

She opened the door, the cool air of the room hitting her hot skin, and stopped dead on the threshold.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Severus stood up from the bed and took a step towards her. “I came to speak to you.”

“Who let you _in_?” she asked incredulously, ignoring his statement.

“Potter did,” he said mildly, as if it were an everyday occurrence.

“He just let you in and told you to go on up to my room?”

“I told him that I needed to speak to you,” he said again, his eyes dipping down to the towel she wore. She clutched the ends a bit tighter and glared at him.

“I’m not interested in what you have to say. I’ve reached my quota of listening to people tell me I’m a failure for the day, thank you.”

“I never said you were a failure,” he corrected quietly. “I said you were wasting yourself.”

“Oh, you know what? Screw you.” Her anger resurfaced alarmingly fast and she stomped past him, leaving a trail of wet foot prints, to snatch up her wand. With two quick spells she had dried her body and Transfigured her towel into a bathrobe. “I’m on the cover of magazines, Severus! I’m on _Vogue_ for Christ’s sake. I know that means nothing to you, but in the Muggle world, it’s a big deal. I’m beautiful, and I make good money. Most people would call that a _success_!” she bit out.

“None of that matters, and you know it!” he countered, his voice rising slightly. “You’re a brilliant witch, Hermione, but you spend your life playing dress-up!”

“I’m not _playing_ —”

“Why are you running?” he demanded, his eyes intent upon her. Her breath caught in her throat and she paused for a second, feeling off kilter. This was the moment and she knew it, but the words refused to form on her lips. Instead, she found lies spewing forth.

“I’m not running from anything,” she told him, her hands shaking. “Even if I were, why would you care?”

He took a step forward, his face furious and his hands balled into fists. “How dare you question me?”

“Is your memory really that short, Severus?” she asked, her tone flat.

“ _I had no choice_!” he bellowed. The words seemed to explode out of him, as if he had been holding them in for a very long time. “You think I wanted to hurt you? You think it didn’t eat me up inside? That it doesn’t still?” He let out an incoherent sound of rage, almost a growl. “You have _no idea_ about the things I had to do to maintain my cover, the blood that’s on my hands, but you know what?” He took a step forward, making her back up as he towered over her, his face inches from hers. “You know what bothers me the most? The sight of _you_ on the floor in front of me, screaming your throat raw. Out of everything  I’ve done, _that_ was the worst.”

Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, unable to look into his dark irises. Hot tears splashed onto her cheeks, running down and off her chin. Her breath stuttered in her chest and, instinctively, she clutched the cloth that covered her abdomen.

“I was p-pregnant,” she whispered.

He was so close that she heard his sharp intake of breath and she opened her eyes. His face, always pale before, looked like chalk.

“Pregnant?” he echoed, his voice just as soft as hers. “Then?”

She nodded miserably.  “I miscarried at Shell Cottage.”

“Oh, Merlin,” he breathed, his eyes falling shut as he straightened and covered his face with one hand. For several long moments all she could hear was his breathing, deep and fast, until finally, “I don’t...I’m not...I have no words for this.”

Sniffing wetly, Hermione sat down on the edge of the bed heavily. “There’s nothing to be said. It’s been done for a long time.” Looking down, she fiddled with the belt of her Transfigured bathrobe. Out of the corner of her eye she saw his hand drop, but she didn’t turn to face him.

“Is this why you left so abruptly?” he asked. “Why you avoided me, wouldn’t come within two feet of me? Why you never spoke to me? No explanations, no _anything_?” His voice rose with each question, his anger becoming more and more evident. She stood up and glared at him.

“What would you have had me say, Severus?” she demanded, trying not to cry again. “’I was pregnant with your baby, and I think you killed it while you tortured me on the Malfoy’s floor’? What would that have achieved?”

He clenched his jaw tightly together. “At least I would have understood,” he ground out. “At least I would have known _why_ you...”

Hermione swiped at her face, dashing fresh tears away, and felt a pang of guilt. “I couldn’t, Severus. I just...I couldn’t. I didn’t want to talk about it to anyone, not just you. Harry and Ron didn’t find out until years later.” She took a deep, steadying breath, and tried to calm herself. “I couldn’t talk about it because talking about it would have made it all the more real. I wanted to forget.”

Severus turned away from her and began pacing the floor at the foot of her bed. She watched him go back and forth, back and forth, his robes swishing around his legs with every stride. Part of her wished he would leave so she could crawl into the bed and cry and sleep until it was time for her to go home. She watched him until he stopped, turning abruptly and staring at her, his dark eyes pinning her where she stood.

“Is that what your job gives you? Does it help you forget?” he asked, sounding genuinely curious.

With a sigh, Hermione sat on the bed once more. “It did once, I suppose. But then again, I was so busy with school and modeling that I didn’t have the time to think, so maybe it was never the job and it was just the fast pace.”

“Why do you do it then?”

Hermione huffed a laugh, a tired, sad laugh, and ran a hand over her face. “I don’t know, really. I sort of fell into it at first. It was a stroke of luck that my agency liked me enough to even take me on. I still had my wild, frizzy hair then.” She smiled at the memory. “I don’t know what they saw in me, to be honest.”

“You have always been beautiful, Hermione,” he said quietly. She looked up at him but he turned away from her, walking over to the window on the far wall. “Are you happy there, then? In America?”

“No,” she murmured.

He nodded to himself, still looking out the window. “Then come home.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “Just come home, Hermione. Come...back.”

“Back to you?” she asked quietly.

He turned around then to look at her, his eyes bright with emotion. “Yes.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with the real Severus Snape?” she asked, only half joking.

“A joke. Lovely,” he muttered, turning back to the window.

“I’m not trying to be cruel, Severus,” she said, standing up and joining him at the window. “I guess you’ve changed, too.”

“Of course, I have.”

She sighed slightly and looked out the window. There wasn’t much to see but the dirty rooftops of old London homes. “How do you know it would work between us, Severus? We came together during a war; that changes things, drastically.”

“Yes, it does,” he agreed. “You are thinking of us as two people brought together by the sense of impending doom, rather than any compatibility.” He looked down at her, one half of his face brightly illuminated by the light outside. “I would disagree with you there. The war forced me to acknowledge that there were many things about you that I admire, aspects of your character that I had not known existed before, or perhaps you had not developed them yet, I do not know.”

“Liking my ‘character’ as you put it, doesn’t make for a relationship,” she pointed out.

“You are being deliberately obtuse.”

“I’m not. I just...” She reached out to him, her fingertips brushing against the familiar wool of his black robes. “I don’t want you to realise you’ve made a mistake, that there’s nothing here,” she gestured between the two of us.

He captured her hand in his, holding it firmly. “I am not an overly demonstrative man, Hermione, you know this. But you must know that there’s something here for me.” He pulled on her hand gently, drawing her closer. “I need to know if...if you can forgive me.”

He did not pull again, but Hermione found herself leaning forward until she was almost slumped against him. Her forehead pressed against the scratchy wool covering his chest and she inhaled him. It was as if her mind had played tricks on her; she remembered his scent differently. She squeezed his hand. “Truly, Severus, it was not your fault,” she whispered.

“But you blame me nonetheless,” he said flatly.

“I did,” she corrected. “For a long time, I did. By the time I realised it was misplaced...” Trailing off, she swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

The brush of gentle fingers on her head, sliding over the soft, straight locks and down to the nape of her neck broke through her jumbled thoughts. “I am so sorry,” he whispered, his voice thick.

“Me, too.” Slipping her arms around his waist, she stepped closer until their bodies were aligned, thighs to chest, her head tucked under his chin. He returned the embrace immediately, and she could hear his heart beating erratically under her cheek. His shoulders twitched, and he sucked in a great, shuddering breath. She realised suddenly that Severus Snape was trying not to cry and tears sprung to her eyes in response. Hermione tightened her hold on him, thinking that she’d like nothing more than to stay there for as long as it took to fix the ache in her chest. With that in mind she pulled back a bit, enough to disengage and make him turn away from her so that she could not see his face. Grasping his hand, she gently guided him over to the bed and crawled into it. He stood awkwardly beside it, one hand over his eyes and his hair obscuring the rest.

“Please, come here.”

She didn’t wait for him to lie down. The moment he sat on the edge of the bed she reached out and pulled him back. It was a bit awkward, he was much larger than her and traditionally their roles ought to have been reversed, but she wrapped her arms around his body from behind, curling her form around him. They lay there for a long time, long enough for her bare legs to get cold, but neither of them moved nor spoke. Hermione understood the need for silence; she’d had a long time to process what had happened to them but Severus...he had just found out that he would have been the father of a toddler had it not been for the war. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was blaming himself, exactly as she had.

When he finally moved, it was to roll over and take her in his arms. She caught a glimpse of his face, wet and pale.

 “I know we have a lot of things to talk about,” she murmured to his chest, “but can it wait? Maybe until tomorrow? I just want to stay here right now.”

 “I believe I can manage that,” he said, his voice rough. She felt him pause, his arms tightening on her ever so slightly, before he began to speak again. “I do not have much to offer you,” he told her quietly. “I have my shop, my potions, and two old biddies who insist on invading my privacy every now and then.”

Hermione smiled softly and pressed her face to his neck. “I think you have much more than that.”

She felt his kiss against her hair, and the ache, right below her heart, eased just a little bit.

**End**


End file.
